<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Driving Too Fast in My Lincoln Town Car (And I Think I Just Might Flip It Over) by sweeterthankarma</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23675743">Driving Too Fast in My Lincoln Town Car (And I Think I Just Might Flip It Over)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweeterthankarma/pseuds/sweeterthankarma'>sweeterthankarma</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dare Me (TV 2019), Dare Me - Megan Abbott</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Decisions, Drunk Driving, F/F, Jealousy, Mentions of Colette French/Addy Hanlon, Teen Angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:15:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,283</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23675743</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweeterthankarma/pseuds/sweeterthankarma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth opens her window, breathes in the cold air so deep it stings her lungs. She thinks about screaming. She doesn’t.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Beth Cassidy/Addy Hanlon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Driving Too Fast in My Lincoln Town Car (And I Think I Just Might Flip It Over)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title comes from the song "Triggered" by Chase Atlantic. </p><p>Also, just as a warning, I obviously do not condone drunk driving under any circumstances. This is merely an exploration of Beth's actions, true to canon. Please do not do anything she does in this fic as it is incredibly dangerous and can put you or others in life-threatening situations.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Muddy liquor sloshes in a plastic bottle, gripped lazily in Beth’s right hand while she steers with her left. Her chipped black nail polish is her guiding light, her focus when the street lights get a little too bright, a little too hazy, and she has to press on the brake, slowing down. She never wants to slow down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She opens her window, breathes in the cold air so deep it stings her lungs. She thinks about screaming. She doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whiskey slips past the rimmed mouth of the bottle when she hits a bump in the road and it spills to the floor, staining Beth’s overpriced yoga pants. The wetness seeps through the fabric, lukewarm on the skin of her thigh, and she’d care except her dad bought her these last Christmas and they’re not even the right size now that she’s lost some weight and gained the better kind of muscle in its place. Her dad can go suck a dick, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beth says it aloud, almost like a meditation, a reminder: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dad can fucking suck it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her words are heady and somewhat slurred. She recognizes it. She doesn’t care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s more concerned with the fallen cap that’s now lost somewhere under the seat, anyway. She doesn’t bother to reach to fish it out when she comes to a red light, though there’s no way she’ll be able to finish the rest of the whiskey and not puke later. She has plans to meet RiRi tomorrow morning for a run, after all, so that can’t happen. She’ll just move the alcohol to a different bottle when she gets home. She already knows which one she’ll use, the hot pink one Addy let her borrow freshman year and never asked for her to return. She takes pride in planning these little things, the only things she really feels like she has control over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plus, she’s drunk. She thinks about logistics when she’s like this, more than she does when she’s sober, weirdly, but at least she has enough clarity to put down the bottle as soon as she picks it up again. She knows enough to be concerned at her current head, to stop when she starts to do things like this, to play games with herself. She should probably be proud of herself for that, but she isn’t. There’s too much to not be proud of, overshadowing everything halfway decent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The traffic lights turn green and she loses some more of the spirits to the bottom of the cupholder. Her mouth burns; she reaches for her water in her backpack, sipping down the contrast of flavor like relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s gone past Coach’s house six times in the past ten minutes. She knows Addy is there. She knows it like she knows her own existence, and it’s a weird feeling to describe</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span> like she’s connected to Addy somehow, in some way deeper than she can fully fathom. It sounds like cliche bullshit, except it isn’t fun or romantic or sweet and Beth would probably be at home sleeping, undrunk, lightyears better off if things weren’t like this. If she wasn’t cursed to love Addy Hanlon the way that she does, to follow her around and pull her rope until she loves her back, full throttle, the way that she used to, </span>
  <em>
    <span>real. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her girl. Addy used to be her girl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Addy’s car isn’t in the driveway. Bitch probably parked it in the backyard. Knew Beth would be coming around. They’re both predictable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beth hates everything about this. About the way that life is lately. All of it blows, really, but mainly the prospect of losing whatever she had left of Addy to a boring, nostalgic blond with a bad dye job who peaked in high school, of all people, is the thing that really makes her take another long chug of her formerly abandoned drink, conscience be damned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beth swallows hard, lets out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a choke as a recoil to her thoughts and the aftertaste. </span>
</p><p><span>“Fucking Colette French,”</span> <span>she announces to her empty car, like she’s still accustoming herself to the truth of the matter. The reality that Addy has chosen someone else, and it’s a goddamn thirty year old. </span></p><p>
  <span>It’s not like Coach isn’t even well aware of how expired and depressing her life is because she so clearly is, like</span>
  <em>
    <span> shit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Beth thinks, she’s probably gossiping about her old flings to Addy right now, getting off on the way that she believes every word she says, cares about every word she says, even the ones that are so clearly lies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “Idiot.” Beth rolls down her window the next time she passes by and she does scream this time. “Idiot!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beth doesn’t care if anyone hears. She hopes Coach’s prissy little husband does, hopes that it wakes up their stupid fucking baby because he’s an idiot too for knocking a woman like her up and thinking she’d ever stay, settle. Someone like her doesn’t settle for anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “Idiot!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one hears Beth. She isn’t surprised. Addy never listens to her anymore. She’s perpetually glassy eyed, just a little out of it every waking moment that Coach isn’t around, but when she is, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is she good. She snaps right back to reality and like a little puppy she obeys and begs and lets herself get trained, groomed, made into a fool.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beth should feel sorry for her. In a way, she does, but more than anything, she’s sorry for herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns a corner too sharp, slams on the brakes when she sees a man out walking his dog too close to the shadows. He lifts up a hand to wave, to be friendly or neighbourly or something, but he’s barely visible when she speeds past him and makes the next turn. She fumbles into her bag and reaches for one of the many tiny shot bottles she’d picked up at the liquor store. She knows it’s the last thing she needs right now, but she takes the cap off with her teeth and swallows it in one sip. She doesn’t look to see what flavor it is. She doesn’t even remember what she bought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s driving fast, back to that same bump in the road and she hits it again, too mindless to even bother avoiding it. So what if she gets a flat tire. So what if her dad yells at her for reckless misconduct again, so what if he grills her on smelling like cheap vodka and staying out late on a school night, wasting gas and energy that should be spent on homework or at least cheering. So what if Addy’s probably fucking Coach right now. So what if Coach gets to touch parts of her that Beth’s never even touched, while tomorrow they’ll pretend that what they’re doing isn’t vulgar and immoral and disgusting and entirely illegal. </span>
  <em>
    <span>So what. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Beth doesn’t know how long she drives for. If she had more of a heart, she’d be saddened, or at least struck down by the irony, of the first thing she sees when she gets home: her mother face down on the kitchen counter, drunker than she is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She almost doesn’t care. Almost doesn’t help her to the couch, doesn’t give her a glass of water and a bucket in case she throws up around 2 AM; she never does, but Beth doesn’t want to be the one to clean up her mess on the off chance she does. It’s the same reason she keeps a different bucket under her own bed. They’re both predictable, both far too gone to be rescued, especially if no one around even notices that they’re crashing.  </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you enjoyed, please let me know! This show is so wild and angsty and the characters are just downright delectable despite all of their faults. Feel free to talk to me about them or other fandoms in the comments or at my tumblr blog under the same username, sweeterthankarma!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>